A Vial Upon the Sun

by James Codlin

  In the distance he could still hear the bawling sirens of the rescue vehicles. Much closer, he heard men thrashing in the forest. Nicolás rose to a crouch and headed down the ravine, motioning for Alejandra and Dennis to follow. Blinding searchlight beams sliced through the blackness from helicopters above, hunting relentlessly for the three figures below.

  *

  Waro Moto knelt at a tiny table in front of him, carefully penning Japanese characters on rice paper, using the calligraphy taught to him by a master of the art. His eyebrow went up slightly when he heard a sound emanating from beyond the paper sliding door that served as the entryway to his room. He made a small grunt, and the door slid open less than an inch.

  “Please excuse me, sir. Prinn’s container has been picked up from the presidential compound. A drayage company called Sanchez Hermanos collected it 20 minutes ago. The bill of lading presented to the security guard said it is being taken to the San Juan Diego airport for air transport.”

  “To what destination?”

  “Manila.”

  Moto carefully penned another character. “Have our research department prepare a briefing paper within the next half-hour on anything that might be relevant in the Philippines right now. Also, have our people call you as soon as the container arrives at the airport.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  *

  Lenin and Gina sat in the blackness of the windowless container.

  “Is there any hope for Martín?” Gina asked.

  “It’s a foregone conclusion that he will be found guilty. Then—and I think it’s a good bet they will remain true to history—they’ll stage an auto-de-fé.”

  “But where?”

  “If I wanted to make a historical comeback have maximum effect on the population of the Latino Union and the uncommitted countries,” Lenin said, “I would do it in accordance with historical precedent.”

  “Mexico City,” Gina whispered in the darkness.

  “Yes,” the professor of history said.

  They both held their breaths as they heard the distant whining of jet aircraft engines.

  *

  The Antonov An-124 is the largest cargo aircraft in the world. It was a product of the Antonov Design Bureau, part of the Soviet government, and went into service in 1985 with the NATO designation of “Condor.” After the breakup of the Soviet Union, a cash-hungry government made the military transports, complete with crews of up to 20 men, available for charter by freight brokers specializing in heavy cargo airlift.

  Dennis Prinn had chartered 124s several times to fly his containerized television ground station to various points of the world. He had chartered through Colsen Transport Services of Zurich several years earlier, shipping his container to Hargeysa, Somalia, to set up a television relay station under the employ of networks in Europe and North America who were fearful of sending their own employees into the war-torn country.

  The aircraft’s commander was Captain Dubronski. After landing at the Somali airstrip, Dennis had found antipersonnel mines stowed in large crates of powdered milk. When he accused Dubronski of using the humanitarian mission as an excuse to engage in arms smuggling, Dubronski ordered his crew to load the pallets back on the plane. When a Russian civilian tried to stop them, Dubronski smashed his meaty fist into the man’s jaw and left him lying on the tarmac.

  As he had flexed his bruised hand, Dubronski thanked Dennis for making the discovery and insisted from that day on that if Dennis ever needed help without any explanation, he should call Colsen Transport and simply utter the word “Bugle.”

  “Bugle?” Dennis had asked.

  “Da. We’re on the damned horn of Africa.”

  *

  At the San Juan Diego airport, Dubronski took the packet of shipping documents from the drayage driver. He sat on the end of the cargo ramp with his legs dangling, reading through the stamped papers. The enclosed bill of lading, cargo insurance policy, packing slip, and invoice all said that the communications center was to be airlifted by Colsen Transport to Manila, Philippines. Dubronski tore open another sealed envelope and found a handwritten note.

  Bugle:

  No questions, no lies. See you soon.

  Dennis

  Dubronski’s crew efficiently pushed the container off the carrier and rolled it toward the front of the plane where the entire cockpit area yawned open at a 90-degree angle from the ground, revealing the enormous cargo compartment inside.

  Four Latino Union customs officials came on board before the container was tied down. Looking frequently at their clipboards, they thumped the metal sides of the container with their fists. When one of them came to the door, he motioned for Dubronski to open it. The Russian used his key from the envelope on the padlock, opened the door, and the inspector stepped inside, turning on his flashlight.

  The inspector played his light beam on the console for several seconds. He turned right and tried the door. It opened, and he stepped in and looked around the tiny studio with its blue wall. Dubronski stood beside him and casually said, “General Velasco sends his regards.”

  The inspector regarded him for a moment. “My uncle. You know him?”

  The pilot twisted his index and middle finger together.

  The inspector returned to the control room, walked across to the other side, and stood with his hand on the door to the bedroom. He opened it, made a show of turning off his flashlight as he pointed it around the room, snapped it back on, and closed the door.

  The inspector came out of the container, followed by Dubronski. “I’ll give your regards to my uncle,” the inspector said, and they were gone.

  Dubronski turned toward the flight deck ladder but was blocked by two muscular Japanese men wearing suits. One of them bowed slightly. “Excuse, please. Where will you be taking the container of Prinn?”

  Dubronski chuckled. “There’s a flight plan on file, gentlemen.”

  “Ah, yes. Manila,” the slightly taller of the two men said. The shorter of the two men produced a pistol from inside his suit jacket and pointed it at Dubronski. The Russian glanced over his shoulder and saw six more Japanese men standing in the cargo compartment with machine pistols aimed at the other Russian crewmembers.

  “We will accompany you to Manila,” the taller man said. He reached into his suit jacket and produced a manifest confirming them as employees of a Japanese textile company and official passengers of the flight.

  Dubronski looked over the manifest and gave the spokesman a sardonic smile. “Looks like everything’s in order, gentlemen. Now, if you’d excuse me and my crew, we have a plane to fly.”

  “To Manila,” the spokesman said levelly.

  “Da, to Manila,” Dubronski answered with exasperation. “Where else?”

  Dubronski ordered his men to their crew positions, and they went through the engine start checklist as the Japanese men shadowed them, their weapons still drawn. One of them slipped on a headset and took a position in the rear of the cockpit. “I am monitoring everything,” he said in passable Russian, “and one of my team members will be in the jump seat. He is a pilot and is certified on five models of transport aircraft, including this one. Do not try anything.”

  Lieutenant Zharinov, the copilot, exchanged a glance with Dubronski and radioed ground control. The response came, “Colsen One One, runway heading, San Juan Diego two departure, climb and maintain flight level four-four-zero, squawk two-four-five-one, contact Departure on one-two-five point three.”

  Zharinov radioed back, repeating the instructions that he had just written on a paper on his kneeboard. He heavily underlined the altitude of 44,000 feet, glancing at the Japanese man in the jump seat and eyeballing Dubronski, who momentarily met his eyes and then looked away.

  *

  When the enormous aircraft had finished lumbering through the taxiways and onto the runway, the tower cleared the Antonov for takeoff. Dubronski pushed the throttles forward until the columns of engine instruments indicated the correct power setting
s and the cargo plane slowly, almost reluctantly, began rolling forward. As it gained momentum, the Japanese man in the jump seat sat with his eyes glued on the instruments, watching for anything out of the ordinary. The aircraft’s speed continued to increase, and after hearing Zharinov call out “rotation,” Dubronski gently pulled back on the yoke, lifting the giant plane off the runway. Departure control instructed them to turn to the south, and the Japanese pilot scanned the engine and flight instruments as they complied with the instructions. The cargo plane climbed steadily, received a new vector toward the west, and continued flying over the coast.

  Zharinov signed off with departure control and dialed the radio knobs to tune in the regional air traffic control center that they had been assigned to.

  “Colsen One One, Lima Center,” the radio squealed. “Heading two seven zero, passing one zero thousand for flight level four four zero, squawk one-eight-zero-zero, resume normal navigation, good evening.”

  “Good evening,” Dubronski replied and then clicked off the radio. He glanced back at his captor, who was still sitting rigidly in the jump seat, gun drawn and eyes fixed on the navigational instruments. Dubronski rolled his eyes, yawned, and made a show of leafing through his checklist book. “Crew, pilot, cruise altitude oxygen check in two minutes,” he said over the intercom in a bored voice.

  Zharinov looked over at his captain, who was removing his oxygen mask from its hook on the back of his seat, slipping the band over his head, and placing the rubber cone over his mouth and nose. The copilot and the flight engineer did the same. The Japanese pilot in the jump seat eyed the pilots warily, but said nothing.

  “Navigator, Pilot, visual check on flight crew and report,” Dubronski said.

  Lieutenant Vilov, the navigator, sat motionless for a moment, then unstrapped from his seat and headed for the ladder to the cargo compartment. One of the Japanese men on the flight deck made a show of cocking his pistol and followed him.

  Vilov climbed down and walked around the cargo compartment. The Russian crewmen and the Japanese watched him closely. The chief loadmaster donned his oxygen mask, and the navigator gave a slight nod. The deadhead crewmen did the same.

  Vilov plugged his headset into a panel at the forward bulkhead and transmitted, “Pilot, navigator, crew positions checked.”

  “Roger,” came the reply. “Confirm oxygen flow.”

  Each crewmember flipped a lever on his oxygen panel, and feeling the cone-shaped masks pressurize, reported a positive flow.

  On the flight deck, Dubronski leaned to his right over the throttle console between him and his copilot and pointed to the oxygen pressure indicator on the copilot’s panel.

  “That’s indicating low,” he said over the headset. Zharinov reached over and tapped the gauge. “Crew, remain on oxygen while we check something out,” Dubronski said over the intercom.

  “Yeah, and it’s fluctuating,” the flight engineer said, leaning forward from his seat aft of the pilots. “It was doing that yesterday too.”

  The Japanese pilot also leaned forward, peering at the instruments that Dubronski and Zharinov were studying. Dubronski slipped his left hand from the armrest down to the cabin pressurization panel. He felt the toggle switches, confirmed the position of each, and opened the guard protecting the emergency depressurization switch.

  The pilot toggled the switch, and instantly there was a loud bang and a dense fog filled the cabin. A strident bell sounded and four lights on the instrument panel blinked urgently. The Japanese pilot was lost from view in the fog, but the flight engineer felt the man clawing at the air around him. In a fluid motion, the engineer seized a heavy flight manual from the leather case at his feet and swung it in an arc, smashing it into the Japanese man’s head. He slumped in his shoulder restraints.

  At the back of the flight deck, the Russian-speaking Japanese man was on his feet, pointing his machine pistol toward the pilots but unable to see through the mist. Suddenly the navigator was at his side, clubbing the man’s skull with a fire extinguisher.

  In the cargo compartment, the Russian crewmen grabbed tie-down straps, smashing the heavy metal buckles into their Japanese guards, who were disoriented in the fog and gasping for breath. In seconds, their captors lay on the floor, bleeding.

  Dubronski pulled the throttles back to flight idle, switched off the transponder so that radar on the coast could no longer track them, and pushed the yoke forward, putting the huge transport into a steep turning dive. “Get that container open fast!” he yelled through the headset. The engineer grabbed the key from him and raced down to the mobile studio, opening the lock and throwing open the door. Two loadmasters ran in with portable oxygen bottles and masks, slamming open the door to the bedroom. They found Lenin and Gina unconscious on the floor and rolled the man and woman over on their backs. Their lips and eyelids were cyanotic blue. They clamped the oxygen masks on their faces and watched as the masks ballooned slightly with the pressure of the oxygen flow.

  After several seconds, Gina’s eyes fluttered open. She looked around in confusion at the man kneeling over her. Lenin began to cough harshly into his mask, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The loadmasters each gave a thumbs-up to the engineer in the doorway, who walked like a drunken man toward the ladder as g-forces alternately pressed him to the floor and made him nearly weightless in the tight spiraling dive. He struggled into his seat, put on his headset, and said, “They’re okay.”

  “Good work, crew,” Dubronski said. He watched as the altimeter unwound to one thousand feet, then pulled back the yoke and turned toward the shoreline.

  “Remember when we did all that low-level flying in the mountains in Syria?” Dubronski asked. “I bet I still can do it.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Zharinov replied. “You were fifteen years younger then.”

  Dubronski laughed heartily as he banked the transport sharply toward a gap between two mountains, en route to the map coordinates of the abandoned airfield that Dennis Prinn’s encoded message had designated as their destination.

  *

  Waro Moto sat at a simple but elegant desk, adjusting his reading glasses from time to time as he scanned the papers in front of him. Without looking up, he said to the young man who stood silently before him, “There is nothing noteworthy happening in the Philippines.”

  “That was our conclusion also, Moto-san,” the man said.

  “What did our people on board the aircraft say?”

  “We have not heard from them since they called in to say they were aboard and ready for takeoff, with the aircraft under their control.”

  Moto grunted. “What else do you have?”

  “The cargo manifest said the container was consigned to Dennis Prinn, care of P.K. Marcos Customs Agents, Manila,” the man said. “Also, the flight plan was for a standard departure from San Juan Diego and then a direct flight to Manila.”

  “So you are prepared to let the matter rest at that?” Moto demanded, glaring at the young man.

  “No, sir. We are trying to determine where, if he were to divert, Captain Dubronski would go.”

  “I have some ideas,” Moto said.

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  Nicolás Ibarra, Dennis Prinn, and Alejandra Rojas hunched in the tall grass at the edge of the airfield. They looked anxiously into the clear sky, listening intently for the sound of approaching aircraft.

  “How did you know of this place?” Nicolás asked Dennis.

  “I did a piece on drug shipments for a television network in Hong Kong.”

  “I know it too,” Nicolás said.

  Dennis stared at him.

  “Well,” Nicolás said, “to do a revolution, you have to work with a lot of people.”

  Dennis smiled, then glanced at his phone. “I can’t understand why Dubronski’s late,” he said.

  “How reliable is this guy?” Nicolás asked. “Isn’t he a kind of mercenary?”

  “Mercenary. Revolutionary. I work with all kinds of vermin, don’t I?”r />
  Nicolás chuckled in response.

  They heard a shrill whine in the distance. To the west, the silhouette of an enormous airplane banked with the left wing pointing straight at the ground, the right toward the sky, as it emerged from the narrow pass between two mountain peaks. Once out of the pass the Antonov 124 rolled its wings level and descended, hugging the treetops. The cargo craft roared over the valley floor, circling the airfield before touching down.

  There was thunder as the thrust reversers slammed shut, decelerating the plane. It stopped at the far end of the runway, turned, and taxied back. The engines spooled down and silence fell over the valley. When the door opened, Captain Dubronski lowered the entrance stairs, stepped out, and from behind him came Teodoro Lenin and Gina Ishikawa.

  Nicolás, Dennis, and Alejandra emerged from the tall grass. Alejandra stopped in front of Lenin, looked him up and down, and asked, “Professor?’”

  “Yes, Alejandra,” Lenin said.

  She smiled and reached out to shake Lenin’s hand, but he leaned forward and kissed it instead.

  “You have come a long way and endured much for my sake,” he said. “For that, I thank you.”

  Alejandra’s smile faded. “For Dave’s sake, as well.”

  Lenin nodded solemnly. “Of course. Nico, Dennis—congratulations.”

  “Skittles and beer,” Dennis said.

  Nicolás rolled his eyes and spat at the ground. “All I’ve done is promote the cause of capitalism.” His eyes, though, betrayed the satisfaction of a man who had achieved a job well done.

  Lenin reached out and vigorously shook Nicolás’s hand. “All the same, Nico, thank you.”

  “Professor, I have a great deal of information for you,” Alejandra said.

  Dubronski looked up and saw the contrails of a jet aircraft crossing the sky high above the field. “Plenty of time for that aboard the plane. Lenin, I hope you’ve figured out a destination to give me.”

  “Mexico City,” Lenin replied.

  Dubronski grunted and then cocked his thumb back toward the plane’s cargo hold. “Happy to oblige. But first, could you guys give me a hand? We have some Japanese cargo that needs to be unloaded.”